[EDWARD’S POV]
September 15, 1338
The wind shrieked a mournful song through the shattered battlements of Calais, each gust a whispered curse upon the English banner that dared usurp the fleur-de-lis atop the once-proud French city. A week. It had only been a week since the echo of clashing steel and the screams of the fallen had faded into the mists of dawn, leaving behind a gnawing uncertainty. Had our prisoner, that sly fox of a farmer, delivered news of our conquest to his lily-bedecked king in Paris? Well, we have held his family hostage so that should not be a question. The question is: Would dawn unveil a fresh tide of French steel rolling toward us, fueled by righteous fury and the sting of defeat?
My days pulsed with the frantic rhythm of preparation. From the sprawling docks of Norwich, I had ordered ships laden with cement bags, their grey cargo whispering promises of resilience. Like a surgeon stitching a gaping wound, I oversaw the mending of Calais' battered walls, each trowelful of mortar a defiant retort to the French siege. Sleep was a fugitive visitor, stolen moments snatched between prowling the ramparts, a watchful hawk against the ever-present threat of rebellion. By day, my eyes scoured the skyline for the telltale glint of French pennants, my ears strained for the distant boom of cannons. By night, the flickering torchlight danced upon the faces of my men, their grim resolve mirroring my own.
But Calais, that stubborn mistress, was not solely subdued by sword and stone. To win her heart, I needed guile as well as grit. With a flourish, I decreed the year 1338 one of grace, a year free from the iron shackles of taxation. The residents, their pockets suddenly heavier, their anxieties soothed, began to eye their new English overlords with less suspicion. Some even dared a tentative smile, a flickering candle in the gathering dusk of our uneasy peace.
Yet, not all hearts were so easily swayed. A knot of defiant souls, their eyes smoldering with an unyielding love for the fallen fleur-de-lis, remained impervious to my olive branch. For them, diplomacy was a whisper lost in the roar of their loyalty. And so, with a heavy heart, I invoked the blunt tongue of necessity. Those unwilling to bend were pressed into service, their reluctant hands gripped around English weaponry. Calais' walls became their new battleground, a crucible where English steel and French blood might forge an uneasy truce.
Now, as the sun cracks through the dawn, casting long shadows across the mended ramparts, the question hangs heavy in the air. Will this fragile peace hold? Or will the wind, bearing whispers of the betrayed king in Paris, once again unleash the storm of war upon Calais? I stand, a solitary silhouette against the rising sun, the English banner a defiant challenge against the uncertain horizon. This is my Calais, bought with blood and stitched with mortar, a precarious haven where the seeds of acceptance must blossom before the thorns of rebellion take root.
Rufus's parchment crackled in my trembling hands, each word a searing brand upon my soul. "Recaptured," it proclaimed, yet the victory tasted like ashes in my mouth. Every line was a fresh gash upon my conscience, etched in the blood of innocence. London, my home, had risen anew from the ashes, but at what a terrible cost?
Bernard de Moreuil, that viper, reared his head once more. I saw him in my mind's eye, sneering beneath the French banner, a wolf savaging the English lamb. His name slithered from my lips, a curse choked by grief.
The siege of Royal Castle – I could almost hear the clash of steel, the guttural screams of men, the pounding of cannon against ancient stone. The stench of burnt flesh and cordite choked me, the echo of dying screams a haunting symphony in my ears. Yet, Rufus's words painted a picture of desperate triumph. Three thousand against an occupying force, a tide of English steel washing over the city walls, reclaiming their birthright. But the victory rang hollow, its joy swallowed by the abyss of what lay within the castle walls.
The escape of Edward III, a flicker of hope in the gloom. I imagined him, pale and bloodied, clutching the hand of Henry, my future betrothed's father, their flight through the secret passage a desperate gamble against fate. It wasn’t long before Henry, a tower of strength felled, his sacrifice a bitter pill to swallow. My tears fell onto the parchment, blurring the ink, each drop a searing tear branded by guilt.
And then, Joan. The news of her untimely demise was given to Rufus by my cousin, the king himself. My sweet Joan, her laughter forever silenced, her spirit snuffed out like a candle in a whirlwind. The image of her, broken and lifeless, will haunt my dreams, a constant reminder of my failures. Her death, another tally mark on the ledger of my sins.
Rufus's words continued, each sentence a fresh blow. The torture of Royal Castle, the screams of women and children, the bestial acts committed in the name of conquest. My blood turned to molten lead in my veins, anger a roaring inferno threatening to consume me. My recklessness, my ambition, had unleashed this horror upon my land. Every innocent life lost was a weight upon my soul, a burden I could barely bear.
Once the royal castle was retaken, the English soldiers wasted no time in rounding up the remaining French troops. Their faces were grim with determination, their eyes burning with a thirst for vengeance. They had seen the horrors inflicted upon their king and his family, and they would not rest until those responsible were brought to justice.
The captured French soldiers were interrogated, but they offered little information. Some cowered in fear, while others spat insults and defiance. But none would reveal the whereabouts of the man who had ordered the attack, Bernard de Moreuil.
Finally, the English soldiers turned to Bernard himself. He stood before them, his face a mask of arrogance. Even in the face of capture, he seemed unafraid. When questioned about the king and his family, he simply smiled and said, "Look in the garden."
The discovery in the garden, a tableau of grotesque cruelty. The Crown Prince, his young life stolen, his body dangling like a puppet hanged by the neck on the largest tree of the garden by French savages. The Queen, her unborn child ripped from her womb, both displayed for the depraved amusement of men who called themselves knights. The Princess, her beauty twisted into a macabre ornament, a testament to the barbarity that lurked beneath the veneer of chivalry.
The world reeled around me, the ink on the parchment swimming before my eyes. I choked back a sob, the taste of bile rising in my throat. My hands tore at my hair, clawing at the image of their suffering, an image branded onto my soul. My own reflection in the dying firelight – hollow eyes, a face drained of color, the very lifeblood sucked out by the monstrousness I had unleashed.
In that moment, doubt took root, a poisonous vine twisting around my heart. My decisions, my ambitions, had they all been in vain? Was I not the savior, but the harbinger of doom? The weight of responsibility, the crushing guilt, threatened to drown me in its icy depths.
King Edward III lay ravaged, his once powerful frame reduced to a fragile wraith. The unspoken truth of his family's fate hung heavy in the air, a bitter pill, Rufus dared not administer. The shock, he feared, would extinguish the flickering flame of life that remained.
My own heart ached with a leaden weight. Vengeance would be taken, its bitter fruit ripening at a quick pace as we speak. For now, England needed a steady hand, a rudder to guide her through the storm-tossed waters of this crisis. The mantle of responsibility fell upon my shoulders, a burden both daunting and necessary.
Choosing a regent proved a torturous puzzle. Rufus, my loyal friend and confidant, lacked the clout, the name, to govern in my absence. He remained a stalwart knight, but the crown required a presence more weighty, a lineage steeped in the blood of nobility.
After putting in much thought, the answer emerged from the mist of indecision. Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster and Leicester, my future betrothed's brother, loomed into focus. His veins pulsed with the blue blood of royalty, his name a banner of authority and riches recognized throughout the land. He was young, yes, but beneath his youthful exterior pulsed the wisdom of a seasoned commander, his eyes mirroring the steely resolve of a leader.
The mantle of regency shall settle upon Henry's broad shoulders, not as a crown, but as a borrowed cloak. Until the smoke of vengeance cleared and my foot touched English soil once more, he would steward the realm with the steady hand of a brother and the unwavering loyalty of a knight. This was not his birthright, nor would it ever be. It was a bridge, a span of stone across the raging torrent of grief, built to carry England until I, her true shepherd, could return to guide her flock.
The parchment crumpled in my fist, its once crisp lines blurred by the sweat of newfound urgency. With a flick of my wrist, I sent it sailing towards the hungry maw of the hearth, watching it writhe and blacken under the licking flames. Each crackling ember mirrored the churning calculations within my mind – Calais to Paris, a three-day march for a desperate peasant bearing dire tidings. By that reckoning, the 13th would have seen his message delivered, and if Philip the Fortunate was the viper I knew him to be, two days hence would witness his venomous response. Today, then.
My gaze, heavy with anticipation, sought solace in the boundless expanse of the sea beyond the study window. Gold usurped azure above. Sun, a conquering king, claimed the sky as the morning began. Below, on earth, crimson and gold unfurled against the dying blue, a mirrored echo of the celestial clash. Plantagenet versus Valois, lion against fleur-de-lis, the stage set for a conflict bathed in the blood-soaked hues of dawn.
Sigurd's entrance, his face etched with both excitement and a touch of enigma, drew my attention from the window. Our eyes met, a silent conversation transpiring in the space between us. An understanding smile, deeper than words, stretched across Sigurd's features. In a voice steady as the sea's ebb and flow, I inquired, "They have arrived, haven’t they?"
Patreon
